


A Clockwork Casablanca

by Dr_Princip



Category: A Clockwork Orange (1971), Casablanca (1942)
Genre: Bombs, Casablanca References, F/M, Film Noir, Intrigue, Nazis, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Urination, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Princip/pseuds/Dr_Princip
Summary: Two of your favourite movies come together in this twisted retelling. Will our dashing hero rediscover love, or will he meet with the short end of a long Nazi?
Relationships: Casablanca Craig/Daisy Burgess
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	A Clockwork Casablanca

It was midnight in the city of Casablanca. Midnight, and midwinter. The wind was picking up, and blowing heavy drifts of snow inside the city walls. Most people were long gone, tucked up inside, dreaming of happier times. Since the Nazis had moved in, there were strict curfews. But even the Nazis had stopped marching during periods of heavy snow. Twelve notes from the clock tower was the only noise on the streets. Yes, this is why they called it ‘The White House’. Only one building had the lights on. The Casablanca Crown, that esteemed venue. Nothing could make The Crown shut its doors, not Nazis, not bombings, and certainly not snow. But even so, the bar was pretty quiet. The bartender was asleep, there was only one patron. He lay slumped against the bar, sipping a dry beer. The man was wearing a fashionable trenchcoat, and a perky fedora. The side of his pinstripe shorts were covered in caked-on soup.Casablanca Craig had been there for six hours now, and he wasn’t even close to any sort of record. Craig knew the city well and the bar even better. He reached over the bartender to get himself another drink. Nobody would mind. He practically owned the place.  
Craig Bogart had moved to Casablanca five years ago, and quickly became a permanent fixture at the bar. He started off as Mr Bogart, but soon adopted the moniker of Casablanca Craig. Not everyone knew his name, but everyone knew his story. The thoughts in his mind aligning themselves once more, Craig stammered out a few words. “Damn Nazis Took My Girl” he stammered at the nearest empty stool. That was the fourth time tonight. Craig was a man lost in time.  
When he had arrived in Casablanca, as the wealthy heir of a Zeppelin Manufacturer, he had a head full of stars and a heartful of love. At the time, he came with Daisy Burgess, a young socialite from Boston. But things quickly turned sour. Craig’s long standing gambling habits got the best of him, and he fell in with more than the wrong crowd. Beneath the city of Casablanca, there were a number of small speakeasy-casinos and gambling basements. The more he spent tossing pyramids at the roulette table, the less he spent with Daisy. And it wasn’t much of a secret that she had been spending more and more time with a platoon of Germans acting as the advance scouts for the inevitable occupation.  
One warm July night, Craig gambled away the engagement ring he would’ve proposed marriage to Daisy with. And the man he lost to was Hans Gross, the very leader of the German Platoon. The next morning, Craig’s hotel room was locked, Daisy had left, and the Nazi tanks were rolling in from the west.  
The bartender shifted his body to one side, knocking a beer glass to the floor. Craig came to. He needed to take a leak. He shambled off to the bathroom, swung open the door and whipped out his Casablanca cock. Craig made short work of the urinal, and returned to take his place at the bar. But something caught his attention. A noise, the faintest sound coming from the grand piano in the corner. And it wasn’t music. More than anything he had left, Craig loved the sound of a finely tuned piano. Sam, the pianist who frequented the Crown had never disappointed him with all sorts of beautiful original compositions and classic favourites. But Sam had gone home for the night, as usual. And he never used a metronome, which made the presence of this ticking all the more strange. Yes - it was definitely a ticking. And the piano was unoccupied. Craig flung the lid. There, nestled amongst the strings was a parcel. It was about the size of a head and was wrapped in brown paper. It had an ominous bulge in the middle, and was making a well-timed ticking noise. Craig sat and looked at it a while, in drunken stupor. What was it, why was it in the piano, and how long had it been here? But then he figured it out. The parcel was a bomb. With one powerful twist of his pelvis, he flung it into the air and out of the way. The bomb shattered the front window, and landed in a barrel across the street. Craig ducked behind the piano for cover. Soon enough, an explosion rang out, reducing the opposing fishmongery to chunks. Refrigerated herring went flying, and a number hit the ivories. But still the bartender slept on.  
A cry rang out, and a group of Germans were quickly on the scene. Craig recognised one of them. Linus Sanner - a cruel man. He had wiry hair and a permanent bruise on his chin.  
Craig stayed hidden. He knew any evidence in his involvement would eventuate in a speedy imprisonment. Captain Sanner paced around the scene, then strolled into the Crown. Sure enough, he spotted Craig, and had him in cuffs. There was no struggle necessary. “Casablanca Craig” whined Sanner in a thick German accent, “What a surprise”. Craig grunted in response. He didn’t have anything left to say to the Nazis. Another uniformed thug swung down from behind with a truncheon and knocked him out cold. Casablanca Craig was booked in for his next night behind Casablanca Bars.


End file.
